


Five Potions

by LuminousGloom, rscollabmods



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Art, Hogwarts, M/M, MWPP, Marauders, Mild Angst, Post-Azkaban, Post-Hogwarts, Post-War, Potions, Romance, potion accident
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-21
Updated: 2016-06-21
Packaged: 2018-07-15 08:03:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7214302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuminousGloom/pseuds/LuminousGloom, https://archiveofourown.org/users/rscollabmods/pseuds/rscollabmods
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"In potion making, certain ingredients have a particular affinity, making them more effective in combination. Or the opposite can be true, when their combined properties hinder more than they help the desired outcome."<br/>A record of various potions attempted by Remus and Sirius at different points in their lives - many of them disastrous, but at least one works like a charm.<br/>Art by Ithinkitsdashing, words by Luminousgloom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Potions

**Author's Note:**

> This collaboration was created as part of the 2016 round of [rs_collab](http://rs-collab.livejournal.com/)
> 
>  
> 
> **TEAM: Potioneers**

**1.**

“Lupin! Black! Contain yourselves.”

“Yes, Professor Slughorn.”

The professor makes a mental note not to pair those two up again. In potion making, certain ingredients have a particular affinity, making them more effective in combination. Or the opposite can be true, when their combined properties hinder more than they help the desired outcome. As far as Lupin and Black go, definitely the latter is true.

While Lupin’s performance in Slughorn’s class has always been listless, and mediocre at best, Black has at times displayed some natural flair - he just seems generally bored and disinterested in pursuing the subject.

Now, though, the two boys are huddled over their cauldron almost conspiratorially, keenly measuring and chopping and stirring away. They are obviously enjoying working together, even appear to be excited. This would be a good thing, if only they didn't keep breaking phials and dropping bottles. Laughing and giggling a lot, elbowing each other. 

Perhaps their enthusiasm isn’t actually directed at their task exactly, the batch of _Eyebright_ they're meant to be brewing up. A classic potion, used for seeing more clearly with the eyes as well as the mind. Horace Slughorn himself could make it perfectly by age sixteen, but students today are nothing like what they used to be. He shakes his head and turns his back on the pair, moving on to inspect the progress at the next row of tables. 

“This is ridiculous.” Sirius pretends to be indignant. “That’s the third time you’ve broken that beaker.”

Remus sticks out his glistening violet fingers, making a face. “You try holding on to anything after touching that blasted mirewrack. It must be the slimiest plant in existence. And I can’t seem to get the stuff off.”

“Let me have a go. Here, give me your hand.” Sirius grasps Remus’ wrist and begins to vigorously scrub his hand with the cloth they've been given for wiping up spillages. Remus watches him work, riveted. Then he looks up, their eyes meet. They both grin, and Remus’ cheeks turn a bit pink.

“There you go,” Sirius says quietly after he’s scoured Remus’ other hand. “That should do it.”

“Cheers.” Remus clears his throat and grabs a random ingredient - a small parchment wrap containing a silvery powder. “Now this? This is clary root, isn't it?” He frowns at his stained potion book.

“Sure,” Sirius shrugs, obviously thinking of anything but the task at hand. “Why not, chuck it in.”

The bang is deafening. Bits of bricks and mortar and moss rain down on their table. The two boys are covered in chalky dust and pink slime.

“Oops,” Remus says apologetically. 

The stunned silence around them erupts into giggles and fits of laughter.

Remus doesn't move, clearly mortified. Sirius manages to suppress a grin and wipes at his own hair, examining with distaste the slimy residue left on his fingers. 

“What we are able to see most clearly, class,” Slughorn announces pointedly, “is that Lupin and Black are a powerful but unfortunate combination, in fact one that is demonstrably dangerous. Not conducive to clarity of mind, I’d say, but positively destructive.” He chuckles at his little joke, then looks at them sternly. “Not least, I'm afraid, to your House Points. Let that be a lesson to you, boys.” 

 

**2.**

“What on earth is this?” Lily peers over Remus’ shoulder at the dull green liquid half filling the bathtub.

“Ah!” James looks up, grinning proudly. “Our secret recipe! A particularly powerful potion.”

“Looks like troll vomit,” Lily observes. “What’s it do?”

“Gets you spectacularly wasted, of course,” Sirius frowns at her, continuously stirring the concoction with a long wooden spoon. “Enough to forget your own name.”

“And that's a good thing?” Lily sounds unconvinced.

James consults the scribbles on his torn piece of parchment. “All right, time to add the Bitters, Moony.”

Remus uncaps the small brown bottle and upends its contents into the noxious brew, which fizzes and bubbles, emitting potently alcoholic fumes. “It's also known as Brain Melt,” he explains. “I don’t know how we’re even going to persuade anyone to drink it.”

“They’ll be queueing up for it, just you wait,” James says eagerly, throwing in handfuls of sliced lemons. “This is going to be a milestone of a party, and this way we are definitely not going to run out of booze. Put in the icing sugar, Pads.”

“Brain Melt,” Lily chuckles, shaking her head. “You lot are such a class act. I think it’s melting your bathtub, too.”

“Is it?” Both Sirius and Remus lean in to check the damage. 

“It’s just stained the enamel,” Remus shrugs. “Easy enough to fix.”

“Anyway, I don't imagine your landlord will mind, not the state this place is in,” James says.

“How dare you insult our palace,” Sirius says haughtily, liberally dusting the potion with clouds of icing sugar. “It’s perfection, both in terms of location and layout.”

James jumps at the sudden, resounding boom of a foghorn. 

“And what’s that?” Lily asks, bewildered.

“That'll be Pete with the butterbeer – or our first party guest.” Sirius coughs slightly. “Can't get that bloody Muggle bell to work. Had to improvise.”

“We thought we'd go for a sound that would carry,” Remus grins. “In case it gets loud later. Here, Prongs, let's not forget this stuff,” he holds up a sachet, reading out the label, “Crystallised Wormwood?”

“Oh,” James frowns at his piece of parchment again. “Damn it, that should have gone in earlier. Oh well, just chuck it in, can't make too much of a difference in what order we add the ingredients.”

Remus sprinkles the contents of the sachet into the brew. 

“Ooh, look! It’s gone all sparkly,” Lily says, pointing.

“Is it meant to be fizzing like that?” Remus wonders.

James nods emphatically. “Oh yes, that's _exactly_ right.” He clears his throat. “And I suppose the way it glitters like that might distract a bit from the colour.”

“Mission accomplished!” Sirius announces proudly, and hands out paper goblets. The boys each scoop up some potion with great enthusiasm. 

Lily makes a face, but nonetheless fills her cup. “Let’s just hope we survive this...”

“To our unmitigated success,” James intones, “and a most magnificent party.”

Sirius agrees. “The first of many!”

“Cheers...” Remus grins, raising his goblet.

The concoction is eye watering, it tastes of pure alcohol, with a definite whiff of old socks. 

The foghorn sounds again.

“Someone get the door,” James jumps up and steers everyone out of the small bathroom. “Let the celebrations begin!”

 

Much later, in the painful glare of the following afternoon, Lily huddles close against James, on the sofa bed in Remus’ and Sirius’ ravaged living room. “Urghh,” she moans into his ear. “Damn your bloody potion. Complete disaster.” 

James keeps his eyes firmly screwed shut, so as to not have to deal with the awful state their friends’ flat is in, or with the potentially embarrassing memory of the frankly mental party, or even with the very painful reality of his overpowering hangover.  
“It's worked, though,” he whispers meekly. “What's my name again?”

Next door, in the bedroom, Remus and Sirius are playing dead, too. Remus reckons he's feeling better than expected, though he is desperately waiting for his dose of _Hurry the Hangover_ to finally kick in. Perhaps the potion is resistant? Sirius is lying next to him stark naked, his head buried under a pillow, actually whimpering.

“Moony. How could we?” he mumbles. “What were we thinking? Entrusting Prongs with the design of a potion?”

“I s’ppose no one forced us to drink it,” Remus sighs. “Or as much of it as we did drink.”

“There was puke _everywhere,_ ” Sirius wails. “Even on the front steps, outside. Oh Merlin. Don't think I can ever look at our bathroom again.”

“I know,” Remus says darkly. “Good party, though. If it hadn't been for that blasted drink… Lily wasn't wrong about it being a bad idea.”

“Oh, don't even mention that wench to me. She was happily getting stuck in, wasn't she, and doling it out to all and sundry… who even were all those people…” Sirius’ head appears from under his pillow, he throws an arm around Remus and moves closer, nuzzling against his neck, his shoulder. His breath smells like stale smoke and fermented fruit. “Promise me,” he says, “that we’re never, ever, brewing another potion again.”

 

**3.**

The same recurring nightmare startles Remus awake one too many times. Sitting up, panting, he's in a cold sweat, his heart pounding. Shivering with cold, and shaking from the content of his dream. Sirius, destroying everything. Tearing into them, laughing maniacally, his eyes like empty holes in some terrible mask. James, lying dead, Lily, lying dead. Peter, dead, too. The baby, spirited away. And Remus left there, all alone, in a desert of rock and ice. 

He's been taking something for the intense pain. It isn't enough, not if he's to get sufficient sleep to be of any use to the Order. So he's gathered his supplies, and looked up the potion. He needs to forget, he must forget everything, wants to wipe Black from his mind altogether. The boy, the man. The great friend, the passionate lover. The traitor. The murderer. 

Sirius has been everything to Remus, and he's got to become nothing. Obliterate him, purge him from memory, even if - even if, truly, Remus can't believe Sirius has really done it. His brain has been made to believe it, been forced to believe it by the simple facts, swayed by the evidence. That icy chasm in his chest, or is it his heart, won't quite buy it. 

He thought he knew Sirius better than anyone, better even than James knew him. In his own blood and bones, he’d always felt him close, even when things had become difficult between them, even when they'd barely seen each other, when they were fighting a lot. Sirius had been there, with him somehow, and in a horrible way he still is now, although now there is also that unbearable, sickening, emptiness, from which he spends every waking moment trying to distract himself.

He can't Obliviate his own mind, it's too risky. This potion will have to do. He's attempted it twice before, it's never worked. This time it's got to. So he’s mashing the witherwort root as finely as possible, and slicing pods of lapse-seed as precisely as his shaking hands allow.

Remus knows he is able to stand a lot of pain, what with the wolf he's never had much of a choice, but of this he can't take any more. Out, he wants Black out, to banish him like the evil spirit he is. 

The colour isn't right. The curse of having no equipment. He's Transfigured an old tin bucket into a cauldron, a tree stump into weighing scales. He's using his trusty sharp knife, but it might be the wrong metal, he's managed to find another crop of wild lethegrass but isn't sure whether it needs to be in bloom or not. It would help if his copy of _Advanced Potion Making_ hadn't got singed and scorched so many times, parts of the instructions are illegible and pure guesswork. 

Remus shreds the bark. Adds the sap and tincture and the various powders. Stirs counterclockwise with the silver spoon, which as usual gives his fingers angry red blisters. 

The phase of the moon is wrong, Remus knows, but what is he to do. This still is the closest to the full moon he’s ever brewed anything. And this time, the mixture is actually turning a promising dark orange. 

Yes, he thinks darkly, putting down the spoon. This is it, this is going to do it. Now down in one, before you stop and think about it. Begone, Black. Away with you, Sirius. Here's to never having to think of you again, Padfoot.

A silvery drop, just the tiniest drop, two at most, nothing really. Sweat from Remus’ feverish brow perhaps, or tears possibly - of rage, of despair, of self pity, who even knows anymore. It shouldn't have mattered, he shouldn't have bloody leant over the cauldron like that. It sends ripples through the orange liquid, turning the colour ashen, then muddy brown. 

Remus jumps up, cursing wildly, and kicks the cauldron, knocking it on its dented side. Steaming and fizzing, the dark liquid seeps into the ground. He furiously draws his wand, then merely hisses “Finite Incantatem.” and all his conjured tools turn back into sticks and rocks and a rusty bucket. Remus is sobbing now. His insides are on fire. There's already that telltale heavy ache creeping into his limbs, the full moon is imminent. He picks up his sharp knife and stuffs the leftover ingredients back into the leather pouch. Then he heads deeper into the woods.

 

**4.**

Through the grimy glass, Sirius watches dark clouds sailing across a yellow sky. Stray gusts of wind keep whipping a strand of ivy against the window. And down in the garden, the giant nettles and noxious plants buckle and sway in the breeze. It's still warm. How he wishes he could be out there. Lying in the long grass amongst towering weeds, breathing in the scent of borage and black hellebore, watching spiders, snails, and bugs. Listening to insects buzzing, to the distant din of London, to the birds in the square. It's been ages since he's felt the wind on his face.

A knock on the door behind him startles Sirius out of his ruminations.

“Here you are,” Remus’ voice says quietly, as if surprised to find Sirius here, at his father's desk, in this dark and forbidding study. Then he’s next to him, placing a hand on Sirius’ bony shoulder. “Hello, Pads.”

Sirius turns and smiles up at him. “All right, Moony?” he croaks, and clears his throat. “Sorry, haven't spoken to anyone all day. Kreacher responds to kicking so much better. Good trip?”

“Not really,” Remus says vaguely, taking in the strange tableau of things laid out on that shiny ebony desk. “What’s all this?”

A fat, crumbling book lies open before Sirius. There is a tall silver cauldron with ornate handles, its burnished surface engraved with faint patterns and an elaborate rendering of the Black family crest. Fanned out around it are all sorts of paraphernalia – herbs and roots, colourful salts, boxes of seeds, of resins, and crystals, and a huge number of bottles of all shapes and sizes. Large and solid ones, coffin shaped flasks made from black glass, blue and green apothecary bottles of diminishing height, patterned with stripes and dots and decorative lettering, thin milk glass carafes, and cut crystal containers, and the tiniest blood red phials sealed with wax. Most of the bottles bear elaborate glass stoppers, shaped like pyramids and gems and balls, like shells or twigs of coral, or a hand, even a skull. There are moth eaten corks and caps made from chased silver. The labels have either peeled off, or are yellowed and faded, some of them torn, others stained, some even burnt. Several bottles seem to contain things that are actually still moving.

“Keeping busy.” Sirius shrugs. “Impressive, isn't it. From my father's collection.” He nods at a black japanned cabinet with its doors thrown open, exposing shelves filled to the brim with more of the same. “The finest ingredients money can buy. Imported from far and wide. And about a hundred years old. Dunno if they'll be much use anymore.”

“What are you making?” Remus picks up a dusty blue jar and squints at it. He can just about make out its contents, numerous small eyeballs, squinting back at him. 

“ _Perpurgabo_. Sort of a room freshener.”

Remus laughs out loud. “Right.”

“You may mock,” Sirius frowns, “but I'm the one bloody stuck in here. And since I can't leave, I can't leave the place the way it is. It's doing my head in. So I'm trying this.”

“Yes. Of course,” Remus nods. “Mind if I join you?”

“By all means.”

They are still polite with each other, careful, at times almost shy. They're each frightened of scaring the other off, of inflicting pain, of making things worse rather than better.

“So what does it do exactly?” Remus pulls up a chair. “Oh, by the way, I've got us something.” As he shrugs off his coat he somehow produces two cold bottles of darkest ale. He cracks both of them open and hands one to Sirius, who responds with a radiant smile. 

“Moony. You do know the way to a man’s heart. Thank you.” They take long swigs, then Sirius explains, “It's meant to clear the place out, banish spectres. This house is riddled with them. Bad spirits, the remnants of evil deeds, all that sort of thing. Awful memories.”

Remus nods, frowning slightly. “Is it tricky to make?”

“It looks straightforward enough. How about we measure everything out, and then do the stirring? It'll be like school again.” Sirius grins at him. “Here, and we’ll get to use all these fancy spoons and things.” He opens a flat box, revealing thin, long handled metal implements resting on padded purple velvet. Slotted spoons, a hook and a spike, a stirrer, and a strainer. “Slughorn would bite our hands off for these.”

“All right.” Remus takes another deep swig and sets down his bottle. “Just tell me what to do, and I'll get on with it. Give me the simple stuff, I’ve never been very good at potions.”

“I remember.” Sirius smiles with a sidelong glance. He knows that his mind is still fractured, he's been trying to rebuild and repair his memory, with Dumbledore’s help. At first Remus was disturbed by how much of their shared past the Dementors have taken away. Now he's made a habit of supplying lots of background information, unrequested. At times Sirius pretends to remember things just to please him.

They get to work as the first drops of rain patter against the window. Using the brass mortar, Sirius crushes shiny beetle shells, grinds carefully weighed lumps of resin to a fine powder. Remus chops various herbs with something resembling a thin letter opener. When he struggles trying to cut through roots, Sirius finds him a different knife, a devilishly sharp one with a gleaming half moon blade and a mother-of-pearl handle.

“Is that dried blood?!” Remus asks, studying the exquisitely inlaid handle.

“Best not to think about it.” Sirius shrugs.

The potion doesn’t take long to make. Puffs of smoke appear in accordance with the book, soon enough pale blue wisps of steam signal that it is ready. Remus decants the liquid into their two empty beer bottles, and applies a simple spraying charm.

With the rain lashing against the windows, the two men move through the dark old house, spattering the potion about, starting at the bottom. They spray the kitchen, the dining room, the hallway and stairs, the upper rooms. Sirius sloshes quite a lot of it into certain areas - a particular corner of the moss green salon, a tatty sofa in the drawing room, the tiles surrounding the sitting room fireplace. Remus watches him, but doesn't ask. 

They cover everything, bedrooms, study, library. Sirius hesitates at the door to his parents’ room, before kicking it open. They can hear Kreacher grumbling in the distance, and faint thunder rolling outside. Sirius empties most of what's left in his bottle onto the expensive rugs, over the dark furniture. He throws back the moth-eaten curtains, and leaves the door open. 

They move on to the top floor, where they treat Regulus’ bedroom, and finally Sirius’ own room, which the two of them now occupy. Sirius opens the window wide, and stares out at the rain.

“I don’t think it’s working,” he says glumly. “It’s all still here.”

“What do you mean?”

“I thought it would get rid of the nastiness ingrained in this place. Remove some of its past, of its foul history. But it hasn’t. Not one bit. It’s all still here.”

“Oh.” Remus perches on the edge of the large carved bed.

“Everything that’s happened here. It keeps - ambushing me, you know? Things I’ve not thought about in decades… I’ll open a cupboard or a drawer, and suddenly it’s all there, all over again.” Sirius turns to face his old friend. “I thought this stuff would help, but it’s not worked. That potion is rubbish. Or we’ve made it wrong.” He shakes his head dejectedly. 

“I wonder whether any potion can even do that.” Remus shrugs. “To be honest, I doubt it.”

“And since when do you know so much about potions?” Sirius snaps. “Last I heard you weren’t exactly the expert.”

“I know I’m not.” Remus replies calmly. “I dunno, Pads. As you say, I've never been terribly successful at potions, so I may well have messed this one up for you. Or maybe we've just done it wrong. Perhaps this place is very resistant.” He tries and fails to suppress a yawn. “I do think it might take more than a potion to get the evil out.”

Sirius sighs deeply. “What, then?” he asks wearily.

“I don't know.” Remus says honestly. Then he changes tack. “Do you remember the first time I came to see you here?”

“I don't know what I remember,” Sirius grumbles.

“It was only for two days, at the beginning of the summer holidays, after Sixth Year. Your parents were away - at some funeral, I think? And you smuggled me in.” 

Sirius nods, his head bent, listening. Beyond the open window the rain is coming down hard, faint thunder rolls in the distance.

Remus continues. “I was petrified and hardly dared touch anything. We spent almost the entire time up here, in your room. Right here, in fact.” He pats the bed, grinning at the memory. “We hadn't seen each other for weeks, so there was a lot to catch up on…”

Sirius smirks, too. 

“Staying here was terrifying. But I was glad that you let me see it, that you let me get to know this other part of your life. Of course we all knew how much you detested it here, but it was part of you, too. You know?”

“What's your point?” Sirius asks irritably.

Remus clears his throat. “There's horrors I wish I didn't have to live with,” he says, fixing Sirius with wide, unwavering eyes. “Things in my own life. What they've done to you. What's happened to Lily and James, to all of us.” His voice trails off, he swallows hard. “But I can't change any of it. I suppose what I'm getting at is, you can't deny the past. However much we hate it… it’s made us who we are. Toughened us up. Made us more resilient.” 

Sirius is frowning deeply, staring at his hands. “Perhaps.” he says darkly. “But I don't need my nose rubbed in it the entire time. I'm tormented enough as it is.”

“I know.” Remus nods miserably. “At least you, and your nose, are still here.”

Sirius rolls his eyes, runs a hand through his wild hair. “Yeah, to fight yet another war. You can't put a positive spin on _everything,_ Remus. You lot are all out fighting, putting yourselves in serious danger, and I'm stuck here, in this nightmare I can't escape. I'm still half mental anyway, and for all I know it's just getting worse...”

“It's not. Getting worse.” Remus shakes his head emphatically. “You’re a lot better than you were. But of course you are right. There's got to be a better solution than keeping you here.” He sighs. 

Outside, the wind has picked up. A stray gust sweeps a scattering of raindrops through the open window, making Sirius shiver, but he doesn't move.

“I suppose I can't help myself, Pads,” Remus shrugs. “It's become a habit, looking for the good in even the most dire of circumstances. It's what's got me through. And to be honest, these days I really _am_ happy, too. All the time. That we have you back. That you're here. That you're safe.”

Sirius looks at him then. For a moment, they hold each other's gaze. When a small, hopeful smile steals onto Remus’ face, Sirius can’t help smiling, too.

There is a pause, before Sirius clears his throat. “You know,” he says, sniffing the air, “It _does_ smell a lot fresher in here now.”

Remus sniffs the air, too. “Yeah,” he laughs. “Molly would be proud.”

 

**5.**

Sirius returns to their large and very comfortable wrought iron bed. The bedroom is bright and airy, and still practically empty, apart from the inevitable piles of books, and the gramophone on the floor - music helps distract Remus before and after the full moon. They still have to properly move in, there just hasn't been time.

“Moony? Here you go, got you a cuppa.” 

Remus stirs slowly, and turns towards him. He smiles, blinking in the light filtering through the curtains, and sits up carefully, gingerly taking the proffered mug. “Thank you.”

Sirius drops the latest copy of _The Daily Prophet_ onto the bed, yawns and sits down heavily. 

“What time is it?” Remus mumbles, rubbing his face.

“Early.” Sirius climbs under the covers, balancing his own cup of tea. “Barely past noon. No time to be getting up yet. In fact, I don't think we should leave the bed at all today.” Flashing him a grin, he leans in and kisses Remus’ neck. Then he remembers and hands him a colourful postcard. “This came for you. From Harry.”

“Oh! Thanks.” Remus says happily, admiring the static picture, an illustration of various birds of paradise. He turns the card over and squints at Harry's impatient scrawl. “ _Dear Remus,_ \- wait, why is this only addressed to me?”

“He's sent us one each.” Sirius sips his tea and reaches for the _Prophet_.

“Has he,” Remus is impressed. “That's kind of him.”

“Well, they're almost identical,” Sirius grins, scanning the front page of his paper. “That he's sorry he's not here to help us move… they're swimming every day, and the food is delicious. He wants us to grow tropical fruit in the garden…”

 _“Let's plant some pawpaw in the new garden,”_ Remus reads out loud and chuckles. _“All we’re doing is eating and sleeping and nothing much else. Your friend Luscombe has been showing us his huge collection of iridescent insects. He's a real character, likes his rum, and says hi by the way. Hope the full moon went ok, though I'm sure it did with Padfoot looking after you. Is he really developing a new type of Wolfsbane?! Don't let him kill you, not even by accident! Love from Ginny, too, Harry.”_

“I think it's doing him a world of good, being out there. Sounds like he's feeling a lot better.”

“Yeah.” Remus yawns and stretches comfortably. “I'm feeling a lot better, too.”

Sirius lowers the _Prophet,_ beaming. “How about that latest batch of Wolfsbane, then? Worked quite well, didn't it?”

“Excellent. The best yet. Maybe you should realise your lifelong ambition, and finally embark on that career as a master potioneer.”

“Yes,” Sirius laughs. “If only to get to spend more quality time with old Slugs.”

“He did always say you had potential.”

“Remember that time we exploded a whole cauldronful of slime in his classroom?”

“I think so,” Remus shoots him a quizzical look.

“There was an almighty bang, goo everywhere! And he said something about you and me being a lethal combination…”

“Ah! That! Yes.”

“Sixth year, was it? I reckon we'd only just started seeing each other… So we definitely would've had other things on our mind.”

“Yeah.” Remus smiles wistfully. “I had such a massive crush on you...” He takes a long sip of tea. “I know it was by no means perfect, but I've often thought of that era - those last two years at Hogwarts, and the year after - as probably the happiest time of my life.”

“It must've been good,” Sirius nods, “since so much of it is still missing in my head. It's coming back, though! In bits in pieces, but I’m starting to remember things again. How we were together, James and Lily, even - Peter…” He clears his throat. “Heartbreaking, of course. But it also feels wonderful, remembering them. The pain that was Prongs, and exasperated Evans… The fun we had. The nonsense we got up to. We knew how to throw a decent party, didn't we?”

“Oh yes,” Remus agrees. “Though in most cases I seem to remember more of the aftermath than of the actual parties. We did have some spectacularly bad ideas.”

“That we did,” Sirius sighs fondly, and sips his tea.

“I miss them, too.” Remus says after a long moment. “Almost every day. We've lost so many good people. Even though they'd hate us getting all maudlin over them. Especially with the war over, and Harry with us. And everything we've done, and he's done…”

“Yes. They would. And, apart from anything else, Remus,” Sirius says wistfully, dropping his gaze, “to be honest I don't think I've ever been as happy as I've been in the past month, since it's all been over.”

Remus wrinkles his forehead. “I know what you mean. It still feels strange, doesn't it. No longer having to fight, no more constant vigilance, no more living in mortal danger.”

“No longer being trapped. Having got rid of that monstrous house. This,” Sirius gestures at the bare walls, “our very own place.”

“Yes. That's the best bit.”

“It's what we’ve always wanted, really, isn't it? At least, I'd always hoped - you know, back at Hogwarts - that we'd get old together. Like this.”

“Old?!” Remus snorts. “Speak for yourself. We're not even faintly middle-aged yet.”

“You know what I mean. That we'd get to settle down together. In peace.”

“Yes. And without having to hide anything. Now that even Muggles are coming round to the idea of letting people fancy people of whichever gender they please…”

 _“And_ you've got your own master potioneer on hand,” Sirius grins, “who’s perfecting your own brand of Wolfsbane especially. Things are looking up all round. In fact, hang on.” He picks up his wand and summons that half-empty bottle of firewhisky from the kitchen, and a smaller, blue bottle of Oberon’s Bitter Orange Liqueur. “Let’s make another potion. One for remembrance.” he says ceremoniously, giving Remus a long look. “This is very old magic. Might seem simple, but is very tricky to get right. It needs _precisely_ the right combination of ingredients, and that's a rare and difficult thing to achieve. Luckily, we've got everything we need."

"Right," Remus sounds doubtful. He watches Sirius decant a measure of firewhisky into his mug of tea, followed by two tiny glugs of bitter orange liqueur.

“The aim of this potion,” Sirius raises his mug, “is to aid one’s appreciation of the here and now. All due respect to the past. Our happy memories. The horror, and grief. The agony and endless torment.” He exhales deeply. “This is going to make all that fade. Just enough for us to better focus on the here and now.”  
He swirls the concoction in his mug a little. When he meets Remus’ eyes again, he's smiling shyly.

“Because _this_ is what's important - this reality, here, now, with you. Being a free man again. And having you with me. Talking to you, laughing with you. Loving you. It’s more than I’d ever dreamt I’d get to have again. Whatever the future holds, I reckon we deserve to taste the present fully. Untainted by past errors, or sorrows, or regrets.”

Remus nods, wide eyed and staring. “Bottoms up.” 

They drink. “About these rare ingredients,” Remus begins after a respectful pause, and Sirius smiles and rolls his eyes. 

_“Us,_ of course,” he says gruffly, “you and me,” and he kisses Remus. It's a long kiss, slow, and languid. There are definite hints of the passionate desire lurking just below the surface.

When they come apart, Remus is cupping Sirius’ cheek. “Bloody hell." he says quietly, gazing at him earnestly. "That's probably the most romantic thing I've ever heard you say.”

“No, it isn't.” Sirius grins, before shrugging helplessly. “And - well, I do still have a massive crush on you, too."

 

)

**Author's Note:**

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